Forty Three 03.27.10 Subpoena to the Court of the Starry Plow

02.25.10

Right now,I am at a place called the Starry Plow and you would be in love with this place. The walls are filled to the rafters with a busy cram of colorful political posters, odd bar room kitsch,and a rusted plow hangs from the ceiling adorned with twinkle lights.

The smell of beer and malt vinegar fills my nose and as I look with appreciation at the Che Guevara flag suspended from the ceiling the beautifully strangled sounds of Jimmie Hendrix's guitar creeps into my ears. Instantly I am smiling. Beaming from EAR to EAR like a Cheshire cat. You are with me now, always with me.

And in this moment I am SO elated, I can't even think to remember that after 2 years together, you left me; you haven't spoken to me in 9 days; that I haven't seen your face in nearly 2 weeks time.

The "Characters" in this bar are certainly of the caliber you would dream up for one of your short stories. And so I feel as though I have been written into one of them. Huddled around our tables in loud animated groups, or milling around the bar scoping the scene, waiting for friends to arrive. We are all so achingly real, so beautiful in that instant of startling naked realism. It's that kind of quality you so easily evoke with your words and I am left dumbstruck by comparison.

My heart should be breaking into a thousand splintered pieces made of diamonds and steel wool. I should be crying, sobbing at home alone. I should be miserable that we are not together.

But tonight I am filled with the babbling frenzy of sound floating about this room
I am fluttering above it all in the folds of the Irish and Scottish flags which hang above me. Ironically they split me down the middle, just like my heritage. I am remembering Ireland and La Boca Argentina in the instant because I SWEAR I can hear someone speaking with an Irish accent nearby.

I am marveling at the thick stylized wooden columns holding up the ceiling to this place above us. Their bronze and mustard tones smiling all around. Even the bricks are warm and winking at me from between slanted pieces of cherry stained pine mounted to the wall. All along the Watchtower gives way to a fuzzy spot of radio babble, the violent exit solo echos in my ears and I reach for my notebook and pen with frenzied hands.

I have to tell you all about this because you should be here with me, smiling, talking to everyone while our feet stick idly to the worn concrete floor which shows all the colors it has every been in the spots most shuffled across. The smell of pizza, burger grease, and stale cigarette smoke climbs into my senses, it is adding texture and reality to this place that feels like I pulled it out of one of my fantasies. A skinny man wearing a plaid shirt, baggy drab pants, and a black fedora over his loosely curling length of dark hair is holding a baby in his arms at the bar.

He is talking with the bartender about his pizza and the little girl is smiling and wriggling in her pink pajamas like a guppy. His voice is the kind I expects belongs to a man who listens to acid jazz rock, grunge, and music that most do not appreciate. You would be fast friends with this man. Over someone's high pitched cackle Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band comes on. The insistent cymbals mirror my excited heart beat. This is too rich. WHERE ARE YOU?!! You should be here with me. We should be worrying and fussing over which piece we should each read tonight. You should have your pen racing across the page with me. YOU SHOULD BE HERE! I pray you'll let me take you here someday with me. Because surely I have found my new home for every Wednesday night henceforth.

The James Connolly quote on the far wall across the bar from me is winking at me. Just then "Don't You Forget About Me" plays and I laugh out loud. WHAT IS THIS PLACE? It is any wonder that in the midst of a day like this so filled with serendipity and your presence I seem half crazed? I am exalted, this is more like myself than I have felt in weeks, months, I don't even know when. They are asking for people to sign up for Slam readings tonight. They are drawing numbers from a small rusted tin box. I am not amongst them tonight, but soon I will be. They are writing down their names for the MC on a clipboard and some are exchanging hugs, some nervous glances, some confident aloof smiles. The cherry sign that reads "Berkeley Slam" in bright colors akin to some cheer squad sign hangs in front of a green curtain at the back of the platform.

The stage is low and small, just enough room for a band and nothing much more. The lights above cast a rosy blanket of light upon the waiting stage. Soon it will be dark and the only space of light will be that stage. Soon the crowded sounds of beer glasses, music, spoons, Mrs.Robinson on the radio, and people chattering as they fill up the bar will hush; then cease. Soon, the only sound will be the voice of the poet on stage, slamming our ears with sound. Fleet wood Mac's Thunder only happens when it's raining comes on the radio and I stare longingly at the stage. Some Wednesday I'll be up there I promise myself. I'm tired of hiding, being nervous, who cares if I fuck up?

At least I'll know I did something for once, participated, made my mark, instead of sitting by and recording everyone else around me. Let the tongue tied trip ups come, let them all laugh at me when I stumble or hiccup. Soon it will pass, because I won't be a doe eyed novice for long. I'll get seasoned, find my flow and slam every hump day I can to hell and gone. I am at a place called the Starry Plow, a bar you would love, and I'm calling you out.

Fuck this drama between us, let me bring you here. You just have to see this place.